


Hallucinations (a Johnlock 3 part fan fiction - post Reichenbach return re-imagined)

by GreyWolfEmber



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bisexual John, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hallucinations, Irene Adler Ships Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John is bi, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock First kiss, Johnlock Fluff, Misunderstanding, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock (TV) - Freeform, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock is gay, Sherlock is not dead, Sherlock returns fix-it, are you reading this at all even? xD, first johnlock fanfic, idk how to tag ok, not dead, sherlock bbc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-27 03:05:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13871763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyWolfEmber/pseuds/GreyWolfEmber
Summary: When John Watson starts hallucinating and sees that Sherlock - his Sherlock - is back, he isn't surprised. He'd been expecting something like that to happen, ever since Sherlock died two years ago. He's thought it all out, John has.But what doesn't cross is his mind... is that hallucinations cannot catch things.





	1. Return

**Author's Note:**

> This is a combination of two of my favorite headcanons :) If anyone knows which ones I'm talking about and can find a link, I'd gladly show that as inspiration.  
> This is my first fanfiction that ever made it to paper... so...   
> Though, in reviewing the incidents of my administration, I am unconscious of intentional error, I am nevertheless too sensible of my defects not to think it probable that I may have committed many errors. I shall also carry with me the hope that my fandom will view them will indulgence, and that after so many months of my life dedicated to its service with an upright zeal, the faults of incompetent ability will be consigned to oblivion...  
> Please, leave a comment with suggestions! Constructive criticism if anyone even ever finds this is very much welcomed!

# Hallucinations

He was dizzy. Mind you, it was dizzy in a nice sort of way, the bit-light-headed and the-world-is-fuzzed-up-on-the-edges way. Because John Watson was drunk. Not in a major, legless, puke in the carpet and stagger around being an arsehole and earning a couple of ASBO’s way, but in a tispy, almost delicate way. Balanced upon the tipping point, where there was enough alcohol in John’s bloodstream to take the edge off his wit, his observation, but also the pain.

The pain, that had been a constant, flitting shadow at his heels. Sometimes dispersing to a faint outline in the brilliant, dazzling light of a crisp fall day, but always back to menacing and looming around corners in his dreams, once the gloom of night snuck back into his flat.

It was because of this very pain that John was tipsy, and it was, in turn, John’s tipsiness that caused him to miss things his normally sharp mind would pick up on (despite Sherlock’s insistence otherwise).

So John’s bogged up mind didn’t think twice when confronted with the crooked knocker of the elegant door to 221B. Didn’t see the significance of that familiar sight.  
Because John’s brain had, quite conveniently, forgotten that Mycroft Holmes, of the 221B-door-knocker-straightening, had been by earlier that day. And no one had been by after.

 

* * *

 

As John entered his flat, his mind still trudged doggedly through the events of the day. Past another lego-swallowing child, the most exciting event (if John could call dead bodies exciting (which he thought was more like Sherlock’s style)) was Lestrade calling him in, to give his opinion on the new case he’d been presented with. Much to the annoyance of his colleagues.

It was, therefore, this, that John’s slowly clearing mind dwelled upon as he attempted to stealthily clomp up the stairs to his waiting bed. It was therefore also this that prompted John’s still mildly befuddled mind to grab Sherlock’s mobile off the armrest of his chair. Sherlock would want to check his texts, to see if Lestrade had any more information about the murder. John could practically sense him in his mind, Sherlock demanding to be passed his phone. Like so many countless times before of “John, toss me a pen” and “John, a notebook. Now.

Yes. It had been quite a while since Sherlock’s last case, and he would be eager for this new one.

It was, then, right in the moment after John tossed the hone over his shoulder to where he knew Sherlock was standing behind him, where he knew Sherlock would reach a long-fingered hand and catch the small device, that John paused, puzzled.

When, exactly, had it been Sherlock’s last case?

And then those nights he had forgotten flowed back into his memory. Nights of countless pens and notebooks clattering and flapping to the floor, of books and scarves and notes, all thudding and fluttering and crunching to the floor. Where no tall, curly dark-haired figure stood. With those memories came, crashing onto his shoulders with the relentless and never-ending fury of waves upon a groundout shore, the moment of crushing realization that constantly came back to him each night.

That there wasn’t Sherlock, piercing gaze and turned up coat collar, behind him. And there wouldn't be again.

It was in this split moment that these thoughts came back to John; it was in this moment John cursed himself for destroying one of the last of Sherlock’s possessions. For destroying the absurd meaning he found in that hard, glorified prism of plastic. Which he waited, frozen numb in horror, to hit the floor, and to shatter, fracture, splinter into a cacophony of flying shards. Like shrapnel. The thought floated into John’s blank mind (almost peacefully blank – could he stay like this? – but for the horror that pulsed and throbbed through his veins, horror who’s origin he did not know) and floated right back out.

But the silence – or rather, the lack of a sharp crack of plastic against the floor – did stay with him.

As did two words, spoken in a deep baritone.

“Hello, John.”


	2. Re-meet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock figure it out. Mostly. Not really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there is more indeed! Wow, to imagine I fancied that I could post a chapter every two days, hah, what a joke. What a joke. *sniff* But at least it's here, and it's not total crap. I think after I type up the last chapter of this (because I'm that last strange person who writes, on, like, paper) I'll start some strange free-form post season four angsty Johnlock and Mystrade fan fiction (hey, that "Mycroft has a goldfish" tag needs some love, people!)

He was frozen. 

That voice, lucid and thick, honeyed, but darker and deeper than honey, like a rich brew of tea – or coffee? – with just a hint of texture.

Because John Watson knew that voice the way he knew his own appearance, how it was ingrained into him, as an extra sense. And just as sure as he was about the voice’s existence, he knew that it really couldn’t. Be real, that is. Couldn’t be real.

Yet, this was too vivid to have been another of John’s dreams. Because he knows those dreams too, knows them like the sky above him, knows that both will always be there. And Dream Sherlock was never quite so much of flesh and blood, never anything more than a shimmering reflection, a mirage John could not touch, a mirage that never spoke but always fell, always too far for his words or his reaching hands could grasp.

And so John remained still, photograph still. Another moment captured. And his mind, shocked clear, systematically worked its way through this new... development... Not a dream  
Just as Sherlock had his mind palace, John had his dreams. Because he knows when he is asleep, for he is nothing more than essence, pure essence, in his dreams. And he was most certainly in flesh, blood, bone, skin. And so, it seemed, was Sherlock.

It was just as he discards this notion, that yet again, realization shines into John Watson, yet again breaking over his head, sliding down his face, trickling through his hair, tracing rivers on his skin.

“About time this happened, isn’t it?” John turned and nearly flinched at the sight of Sherlock, his voice turning husky. Sherlock. Once again. After two years.  
There were not many things that could shock Sherlock.

Two years since John had been under the scrutinizing gaze, the curious tilt of the head, steepled fingers brushing the tip of his chin when he thought, or else wrapped around a mug of tea John had handed him. 

Sherlock opens his mouth. Blinks. Closes it.

Yes, it had been two years, two photograph-less years, because John could not bear to see, yet not truly, see him. 

“What?”

Sherlock’s voice sent chills running through John, an electric pulse. His eyes swept over every detail of Sherlock laid before him, drinking, prying, lapping.

The sight of John, John in his physical and true form, after two years living off of, devouring, becoming obsessed with photographs... Sherlock nearly couldn’t bear it, seeing him again. The way he’d nervously run his tongue – or, the tip of his tongue, which would protrude just slightly out of his mouth – over his bottom lip, leaving it glistening slightly in the warm half-light.

John swallowed.

Sherlock watched the bobbing motion of his Adam’s apple as it dipped.

John’s gaze was fixed on Sherlock

So long.

“My... my therapist.”

What?

“er-“ John was stammering, why was he stammering, he shouldn’t be stammering, clear your throat try again.  
Sherlock missed John’s bemused stammering.

“My therapist. Said. Something like this. Might. Would. Would, uh, happen.”

And Sherlock was lost in the frantic buzzing of his brain, trying to piece together his newest case.

John couldn’t see a thing behind the mask that Sherlock had erected between them, more of a brick wall than a mask. Solid. John’s gaze probed, tried to force an entry, but nothing, nothing but a blank facade devoid of anything, anything...

Sherlock was certain that he would give no hint towards the turmoil raging inside of him as thoughts overlapped and crashed against one another. Evidently, the therapist was not just a therapist, that much was obvious... yet, who were they, and why did they know? (The question was never how if something was evidently true.) Only a small crew of people knew what actually happened the day Sherlock pitched himself off the rooftop of Barts. (And, contrary to the jokes that would cycle through the internet when his return was announced, he had not used Anderson to break his fall and therefore causing his insanity over Sherlock for the two years he had been absent. A horrible cushion he would have made, too. An inflated ego would do nothing to break a fall from that height.) A fake therapist was not one of them. The only was the information could get to an outsider, therefore, would have been betrayal. But by whom?

John wished he knew what Sherlock was thinking.

Later, Sherlock knew he would step through the problem, safely striding through the rooms of his mind palace on the all-too-familiar route. But now – what was John thinking?

“So.” Sherlock’s eyes seemed to be blinking of their own volition. John’s eyes couldn’t help but watch, transfixed, fixed avidly upon those fluttering, dark lashes that made such a dark contrast to Sherlock’s pale and angular face. 

“You knew?”

“Yes.” Like his nerve, John’s voice is steady now, never wavering, jaw set, lips pursed tight.

Sherlock caught John’s probing gaze and held it cupped within his own, lest he spill it once again upon the floor.

“Interesting.”

John half-quirked an eyebrow and huffed out a little puff of breath, rocking forward, shaking his head, nodding his head. God, Sherlock had forgotten how expressive John was, how strongly he projected himself through the little movements of his body. So much that he had craved, that could not have been conveyed through the stillness of a photograph.

Not that it mattered. Sherlock, in a sort, was back in John’s life. Back.

But in his shock, John didn’t pause to wonder how a hallucination could catch a phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment! Feedback, suggestions, random facts, it's all appreciated! You guys warmed my heart so much, if you read this. I was shocked when I had people actually viewing my work, leaving comments and kudos. I honestly and truly didn't expect anything; too much experience with social media-like platforms where one posts their own works, it never lives up to your expectations.  
> Seriously, I was tickled.   
> No, not-  
> Oh, you can figure out what I mean. It doesn't take a deductionist (not that I'm not striving to become one...)


	3. Realize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John realizes that Sherlock is indeed not a hallucination, and takes action in front of a shocked Lestrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is it! I actually finished something (WOW). Please do give me any feedback, especially about the kiss - how was it? I'm not accustomed to writing this sort of thing.  
> I'm also planning to start a longer, post Season 4 fanfiction. Once I have it mapped out, I'll start posting, but I'm looking for someone who'd be interested in beta reading my chapters/revising/editing/basically being an awesome editor reviser person.  
> Thank you for making it this far! Again, I really can't believe I'm getting hits, kudos, and comments at all!

And so, Sherlock Holmes slid back into the life of John Watson as easily as water soaks into parched, arid sand. Soundly, thoroughly, completely. Absolute. Each crack, nook, cranny, seamlessly seeped into.

And still, through a factor of chance, and the narrow view of a sadly mistaken and fixed mindset, John found endless and creative ways to continue believing that Sherlock, as substantial as he seemed, was merely a hallucination. And his Sherlock, brilliant, cold, sociopathic, knows-all Sherlock, had not a wriggling suspicion of the serious breach of understanding between the two men, unwisely passing off any strange behaviour as the aftermath of his return. It had, after all, been only a week or two.

So when they received strange looks at a restaurant, John dismissed it as confusion as to why a lone man asked for a table for two, as well as his continued conversation with an invisible figment of his mind. To Sherlock, it was the same odd look of suspicious confusion as to why he had not ordered any food (as he so often didn’t, still disdainful over the needs of his physical being).

And somehow, miraculously, everything else in their lives was bent into feasible solutions through the filter each was using upon the world, neither realizing what the other saw, neither seeing the whole truth.

Of course, there would, therefore, be a day when it all fell apart once again, a day that could spike to either end of the human emotional spectrum. 

And that day came when John, clad in jumper and jacket against the waning cold outside, heard the strong voice of Greg Lestrade carried down from his flat above. A sense of uneasiness settled somewhere above his abdomen, pressing. Frowning, John caught snippets of his speech above, as he headed up the stairs.

“–thought you’d like–“

Clunk-thwop, clunk-thwop, his shoes sang onto the ascending staircase.

“–intriguing, we can’t–“

The words were so familiar.

“–we need–“

A loose stair creaked underfoot, and John had the absurd notion he heard a dark, rumbling voice reply. 

Shaking his head to clear whatever had been afflicting him, he was sure he heard the word “case” as he stepped into his flat. And for the second time in just a few weeks, John was frozen in blank shock that slammed into him, left him mentally reeling, an effigy of disbelief and realization dawning upon his confusion. 

He really mustn’t make it a habit.

But he was fairly sure the sight of a gesticulating Lestrade and cross-legged Sherlock, carrying out a casual (as far as Sherlock could be casual) discussion of a case, was mind-jolting enough to be justifiable.

Lestrade. Sitting in the chair. As normal as could be.

“Nice to see you, John,” Lestrade nodded towards the mute and statuesque John. Who swayed, shaking his head slowly, eyes flickering between the two seated figures in front of him.  
Lestrade noticed the pallor of John’s face, the light-headed sway, and frowned, reaching out a hand to steady the doctor.

“John, are you–“

“You… you can…” John’s eyes focused on Lestrade’s face. Silver hair. Tan. Worry etched into the lines of his face. 

The silence that fell muffled the room, blanketing each inhabitant the way a thick and humid day presses down from above, oppressive and uncomfortable.

Five words uttered into that silence.

“You can see him… too.”

And then John is shoving away Lestrade’s restraining hand on his chest, flying, no, leaping, rocketing towards Sherlock. Sherlock, with his gaunt face, yet not a curl astray on that beautiful head of his, and Sherlock with his calculating and narrow gaze shattered to show emotion underneath as he finally grasps the meaning of John’s words. Grasps the meaning of his words as the latter of the two hurtles towards him, muscular arms with fists clenched and raised, prepared to deliver a rain of devastating blows onto the visage that had caused John so much pain.

And John is aware of Lestrade shouting their names in the background, aware of the damp spots his shoes are leaving on the carpet, but his world is filled only with Sherlock’s face, and his bloody gorgeous eyes that are for once filled with surprise, and… emotion.

John’s heart is pounding. His chest expanding. Yes, he is expanding into a roar of because he is so full of – of – where was this longing coming from? Had it always been there, held back by walls he had always berated Sherlock for erecting? But all thoughts are nearly driven from Joh’s mind because he hasn’t been this close to Sherlock in oh so long, so long… Had he ever been this close?

And just as he draws back his arms to deliver the first blow, to strike, just as he can see Lestrade’s figure shouting and hurriedly jumping forwards towards the pair of them, without thinking it through (just letting the snarling longing guide his actions) he shifts and instead his hands fly up to cup Sherlock’s face and, braced against his armchair by a knee, bring Sherlock’s face to his own. And presses their lips together. Kissing him. John kisses Sherlock. Kisses him with the pent-up feeling that had been raging within him for God knows how long, tasting sweet and salt on Sherlock’s still lips for the fraction of a second that their lips made contact…

Until panic jolts through him when Sherlock remains still, when he does not reciprocate, so searing that he doesn’t hear Lestrade’s chocked voice suddenly break off behind him, and he begins to pull away, cheeks flushed and an apology already forming on his lips that still tasted of sweetness…

But Sherlock’s arm shot out seized John’s collar, drawing him back in with his fierce gaze fixated upon John’s as his other arm wraps firmly around John’s back. His now uncrossed leg sweeps around John, knocking out his knees so he falls into Sherlock’s lap as if it had all been rehearsed. And then they are both bursting, so full, the two intertwined, unified. John around Sherlock, Sherlock around John, fingers twined tightly through thick curls that John had so longed to wrap his fingers in, John pinned to Sherlock so fluidly, no space between their bodies.

Blood pounded through John’s veins as he parted his lips slightly when he felt Sherlock’s warm breath against his cheek, hyper-aware of every centimeter of skin that came into contact with Sherlock as his tongue gained entrance to the warm cavern it so wished to explore, because that was the only thing on his mind, only thing on Sherlock’s mind as they were both aflame with the passion of it all, each mind filled with only the thought of the other. Sherlock and John. Sherlock and John. Sherlock and John.

And when they finally, resentfully, gently, resurfaced for gasping breaths of air, was to see Lestrade sink back, faint, into the nearest chair. John couldn’t help the embarrassed smile flood over his face, turned to a smirk when he took in the pink tinge of Lestrade’s.

“So much for not gay,” the latter muttered.

“Bi,” Sherlock answered, smooth and arrogant, not a beat off. “It really has been said too often by now, but surely, Lestrade, even this must have been obvious to you?”

“You bastard! You knew all this time! Why mention it now?! In front of, all people, the Detective Inspector”

“Glad for your high opinion, John,” Lestrade huffed.

Sherlock deadpanned, except for a twitch of his pink lips. Which John certainly did not notice. He deliberately locked eyes with Lestrade, who held his gaze, exasperated but defiant (and inwardly thinking, oh no). And Sherlock chose his words, carefully and slowly, deliberately showing how he had obviously taken so much time to craft his speech.

“Don’t worry, John, Gavin–“

“–Greg!”

“yes, yes, him, _Lestrade_ , is next. He cannot keep Mycroft waiting indefinitely.”

**_“What?!”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder :)  
> I'm also planning to start a longer, post Season 4 fanfiction. Once I have it mapped out, I'll start posting, but I'm looking for someone who'd be interested in beta reading my chapters/revising/editing/basically being an awesome editor reviser person.  
> Thank you for making it this far! Again, I really can't believe I'm getting hits, kudos, and comments at all!  
> Thank you so, so, so much. You are all amazing, brilliant, fantastic, and every other adjective John has found to describe Sherlock. You're all of it.

**Author's Note:**

> You made it this far?!  
> What do you think? :)


End file.
